


The Case of the Viewing Wall

by Ioga



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deductions, M/M, Sherlock is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5941873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ioga/pseuds/Ioga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John walks in on Sherlock who has plastered a wall with suggestive pictures of the former. Intense deduction session follows. Naughty Sherlock, naughty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Viewing Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlockian4evr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Greg's Accidental Deduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429943) by [sherlockian4evr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr). 



John's jaw dropped when he looked through the door.

The wall of the next room was full of hand-drawn, beautiful, detailed pictures of John. Many of them in quite compromising or at least very ambiguous postures, all of them credibly depicting real situations.

It would have been slightly disturbing to find such a collection pinned on any wall. Finding them pinned on a wall which was only a few feet away from what was apparently a deeply immersed Sherlock Holmes, a detective and one of the more challenging eccentric people to share a flat with, now, that was something else altogether.

Sherlock stood with his back to John. There was still time to retreat and pretend none of this had happened. John recalled there would be bleach in the washroom which he could potentially still apply to cleanse off the vision that had just been etched into his visual cortex.

Then Sherlock turned his head, and the way he found John's eye immediately seemed to indicate he had been expecting the man. The tall, slim genius grinned quite predatorially.

"So tell me, John, what do you deduce you've just caught me doing?" Such a casual tone, John thought, for delivering such a lethal stab.

John retreated slowly until he slumped into an armchair to avoid being more embarrassingly tripped by it. If anything, it was a very successful avoidance of landing on the floor, and it would certainly have been more difficult to get up and escape from there. He really could not hold his balance or anything else together when Sherlock was being like this. Maybe he should take just a moment to collect his legs before standing up again. It might be safest.

Or not. Sherlock followed into the room and stopped to hover over John, who felt glued to the chair. The veteran doctor's throat suddenly felt very dry.

The lanky detective was wearing a tight black shirt that accentuated his abdomen and chest deliciously, and his straight pants had just enough slack in them that John knew looking would not help. But yet he could not help but glance shyly just below Sherlock's waist. He was not even sure if he was really looking for what he thought he must have been looking for. What on earth had gotten into him?

The glance did not go unnoticed. Sherlock was fully locked on to his prey, and knew it. He leaned over to rest his hands on the armrests of the chair; John could smell the sweet, intoxicating scent emanating from the other man. It made his head spin.

"Sherlock -" John tried to muster his most convincing warning tone, but the slight cracking to tense falsetto fully ruined his planned impression.

"I asked you a question, John. You have the crime scene in front of you, what can you deduce from it?"

John tried to get Sherlock to back off by making a valiant gesture of trying to get up from the chair, but it was very sternly ignored by the detective who was now determinedly blocking his escape. 

"I am not playing this game with you!"

Sherlock cocked his head and caught John's eye, try as he might to avoid looking into his. They were such a deep, dark well, one could just sink into them eternally, had they not also been full of booby-traps, spikes and dream-devouring tentacles. Such was the mind of John's intense flat-mate that any attempt to dive into it was doomed to end up with John washed ashore spread-eagled and gasping for breath.

"John," he purred dangerously, "I see you want more challenge. Well then, allow me to provide you with some..."

With that, Sherlock planted his knee between John's thighs and, leaning on it, bent to whisper in his ear, his lips ghosting upon John's lobe, "...distractive pressure." 

John yelped at the sensation, and he felt blood rush very embarrassingly to a body part of his that was currently uncomfortably close to bumping on Sherlock's knee if the situation kept developing. 

There was clearly no way out but to start working. "Uh, I... you... have a... quite a large collection of... er, pictures of... me." John could feel the heat that was was emanating from Sherlock's body on his skin. This was entirely too close, this was definitely violating his personal space, he should definitely find a way to tell Sherlock that he was being thoroughly inappropriate, yet his tongue kept failing him.

"That, my dear Watson, is a quite straightforward observation. Do you remember the picture in the upper right corner?" Sherlock seemed to ease the pressure slightly; he was no longer within immediate nibbling distance of John's ear, but talking to the backrest of the chair while still poised like a feline ready to leap. And John knew who the mouse would be in this case, should he make any attempt to escape.

John rummaged his memory to find the prompted image, but only managed to recall a number of pictures that were somehow thoroughly resembling his current predicament: one from an earlier case where he had ended up being handcuffed to a radiator and found there completely helpless by a smirking Sherlock, another where he was hastily trying to cover up after some healthy morning cardiovascular exercise in his bed that had been interrupted by Sherlock walking in on him.

No, looking through these pictures was not working out. It was just as likely that there was no picture in the upper right corner and this was, in fact, Sherlock's trap. And by the flush spreading to John's face, it was succeeding.

At the precipice, moments short of falling down into the pit of fully cracking before the younger man's intense drilling, John collected all his poker face capacity and replied, "It was a facial picture. Seemed pretty ordinary." 

Sherlock paused and leaned back enough to be able to stare at John in the eye slyly. "Why, John, you are not doing yourself justice." 

It was working, he had pulled it off, he was on his way to surviving this! John quietly celebrated in his head, and relaxed a bit. "Well, I look at my face every day in the mirror, one gets used to it after a while."

Sherlock beamed, as if he had forgotten his original intense moment. "I **never** get used to looking at your face, John." 

John blinked. Sherlock was shifting too quickly for him to keep up now. What was this, mental mud-wrestling, a Sherlock-grade complicated attempt at confessing love or just a random celebration of yet another momentary obsession of the detective's long list?

For a moment John's heart sunk to his stomach when he suspected that Sherlock might, in fact, not feel anything special; that the pictures had just been some kind of anatomical study or even worse, just something Sherlock was drawing so that he could oust it from his memory to save space for other things.

"Sherlock -" John started, but could not continue. How ironic that while the detective was excellent at pinning down others with light-speed logical delivery, John saw no way to make Sherlock even begin to understand what kind of emotional turmoil his unpredictable behaviour was causing. He closed his eyes reflexively to reduce the amount of sensory input closer to tolerable.

John had exactly 7.5 seconds to despair before his mind was unraveled with the feel of Sherlock's lips finding his for a kiss.

It started light, then as John moaned a confused but strangely relieved sigh into his mouth, the detective pressed his lips against the doctor's more fiercely, invading all his sense, blowing away all restraint and doubt until there was only Holmes, only Sherlock, everywhere, everything at once, and John grabbed hold of him as if a man drowning and kissed him back until he was sure he would black out, and then some.

The game turned out a win-win tie, after all.


End file.
